Bleed Out
by Spike Daft
Summary: Jim decides that Oswald's decision to die on the floor of the GCPD after being electrocuted is unacceptable, but perhaps not for the reasons he would like himself to think. Gobblepot, eventually. AU after episode 12. FIXED.


_Author's Note: So I saw a guy get electrocuted once, at my job. He didn't make it, but in FantasyLand our Ozzy is a contender for Survivalist of the Year, even after such an horrific event. I write my experience into this short story (plus plenty of embellishments; duh)._

_-S.D._

"Please, stop," hissed Oswald as one of Maroni's men scooped him up off of the GCPD floor like a tired child. "I'm fine, stop this nonsense—"

"Hush, Penguin," came Maroni's voice in his ear. "We're leaving." Dimly aware, he was hoisted over someone's shoulder and carried out toward the sleek black sedan that waited outside. He was utterly floored by the shock, though, and he began to cough, suddenly finding himself unceremoniously dumped onto the concrete floor. The man carrying him made a strangled sound, batting at the blood that now stained his sleeves. Oswald could feel the horrendous heat of burns traveling up his arm and into his chest. "Please," he gasped through stinging lungs, "let me go home, Sir. I need to see my mother, she'll worry!"

Maroni smiled grimly, though Oswald could not see him. "Not as much as we will. I know you'll find your way. For now, you're with us."

Oswald gaped, unable to process that this time Maroni would not let him slink away into hiding after telling tales. He had no plans to visit the hospital; he would surely have something slipped into his IV there, and would definitely be a goner at the hands of some hired lackey before nightfall. His mother would probably die of a heart attack if she saw him in this state. His sense of self-preservation had kicked in like when he was in the river before, and he struggled to shrug off Maroni's cronies and follow on his own, limbs struggling to obey. They left him far behind; he could not get his legs to cooperate, much less the right one anyway, to get coordinated enough to follow them at pace. He took a few dragging, painful steps. His lungs burned like he had breathed in sulfuric acid. He ended up going down, lying on his slatted, skinny side and panting on the floor of the GCPD, struggling like the final throes of a gassed dog at a shelter, clawing hopelessly at the pitted cement floor in agony and desperation. Blood flooded down his lower lip as he hacked helplessly onto the floor.

"M-Mr.….Mar…*hack*…oni…"

Bullock was there, and winced (mock) sympathetically as Oswald spat brilliant red blood onto the dark cement floor of the police bullpen, still writhing like a creature transfixed upon a stake, watching his employer leave without a look back. Maroni simply kept walking, and eventually the door shut behind him.

His "boss" didn't wait for him. He left, with his people. _His_ people, not Oswald's.

Cobblepot wondered if he would live much longer or die on this slab floor, twisting in pain, tremoring, and drooling blood uncontrollably. He writhed in agony like the last struggles of roadkill. He manages a glance at his left hand and saw nothing but red and black.

No one ever had waited for him to succumb, but had always rushed off to other business, as though his life was nothing more than a maggot in a soup can in some alley's garbage bin. He could not accept that he would die before an audience.

Harvey covered his mouth in a delicate fashion, watching the scene before him. "Whoooo," he called to Gordon, who was upstairs. "This guy didn't get up. We got a cooked one, I think. Better call Ed down here before your friend kicks off for good. _I'm_ not mopping this shit, that's for sure."

Gordon pattered down the stairs to his and Harvey's work area, in the middle of which Cobblepot was lying face-down in a small puddle of crimson, still feebly hacking every so often, as though one might think him dead and he destined to convince them otherwise.

Of course, the entire department, after recovering their own after the shock, did think he was close to gone by the sight of him. Dying, anyway. They all resumed helpless but spectator-friendly positions around the miserable red, white, and black heap on the floor, and watched him shed life as people watch game shows in the evenings, taking bets. Jim felt his stomach tighten into knots he had never thought possible before. He rapidly descended the rest of the stairs and hunched over Oswald, the well-worn knees of his trousers soaking into the blood on the floor.

As though it couldn't get any better. He sighed and carefully extended a hand to shake the younger man cautiously, as though mindful of being attacked.

"C'mon, Oswald," he hissed. "C'mon, _get up_."

He craned over to get a view of the young man's bloody, burned face. Oswald stared up at him through one dimming, arctic blue eye, already beginning to haze over.

Begging for an answer. Begging for salvation, as Jim had given him on the docks those months ago.

Jim sought desperately within himself and found he could not muster the hatred he was supposed to feel for this man, like Harvey did; like the rest of the force did, Maroni or not. Alongside that discovery, Jim began to understand what it might be like to be so alone and helpless in a world full of vicious predators. He gritted his teeth, trying to think, until Oswald managed to grip his wrist and hold it strongly, effectively diverting his attention. He looked down, startled.

"Please, Jim," Oswald pled quietly, eyes shining. "Please don't let them watch me die here. Not here. Take me outside, or hunch over me or something, shoot me, until I'm gone enough not to care about pride. Please, old friend…" He weakly gestured to his temple, where he wished Jim's bullet to go. The bullet he had so far been so ardent in avoiding he now welcomed.

So Oswald, tenacious survivor, prophesized King of Gotham in many circles even now, had given up. Jim tried to digest this new information with as neutral an expression as he could, but his right eye was twitching madly at the sight of Oswald, and his jaw was tight. Far too tight for this to be the right path. He sat back on his heels, trying desperately to think.

"_No_," he snarled suddenly, startling the younger man, who flinched in the puddle on the floor. Gordon bent down, unafraid of staining his clothes, and grabbed the younger man in a fireman's carry. He was distressingly light, like a bird, and did not struggle the slightest. Perhaps it was too late, after all.

"I'm taking you where we can get some help, so shut up and try to breathe," he hissed, and exited the building as the others watched, heading for his car. No one made a move to stop him, but to his utmost gratitude, he could hear Harvey's unmistakable awkward steps pounding after him. He had only just thrown Oswald into the backseat of his car when Harvey slid into the passenger's seat. "Well, soldier," he said. "Where from here?"

"Montoya and Allen showed me a place," he grunted, fastening his safety belt, and stepped heavily on the gas. Harvey lurched forward with a yelp and quickly belted himself in. Cobblepot hacked blood onto the back seat, and Jim grimaced at the sound, and the thought of cleaning it up. "Try not to mess it up too bad back there," he gritted.

Oswald anxiously replied, "O- of course, Mr. Gordon. I-I'm…I'll try."

After a few minutes of silent driving, Harvey blew a massive, resigned sigh and fixed a pouting, resolute stare out the window of the cruiser.

"I seriously don't know why you keep doing this crap," he complained, and made sure he was loud enough that Oswald might hear him in the back. Jim gritted his teeth and drove on with utmost concentration, remembering where to go, careful of bumps, and Harvey gazed at the bloody knuckles that gripped the steering wheel. Strong hands, but never without cause for strength. Bloody, but only with the spoiled blood of Gotham's filth, and yet he tried to save them; continued to dip his hands in. Gotham would never understand his noble intentions, but Harvey knew there was no convincing Jim. Jim had his own agenda, as always.

Harvey gazed at his own, clean hands, and tried not to feel ashamed of himself.

In the back of the car, Oswald tried not to die.


End file.
